Postmortem
by Takira
Summary: Retrospective--years after the passing of the Promised Day, and Tokyo still feeds the sakura...


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Tokyo had lost its electric glow by this hour of the morning, the nightlife--in varying stages of inebriation--long since retreated and safely holed away to sleep. Night club neon flickered and died, street-lamps dimmed, and those few still awake to see the burdened figure gliding over rooftop and gutter could only attribute it to their own fatigue. It was their wisest course; he was not in a mood to be interrupted...not after a job like this.

Over the years, he'd come to understand that most public figures were heavier than they looked, and oddly enough seemed to grow heavier from the moment they died. He was used to a flaccid sack of long indulgence flopping on his shoulder as he traveled, however distasteful--but tonight's assignment had been different. This one had been a public servant in the truer sense, and judging by the expression still frozen on his face, hadn't once considered that he might be killed for it. Onmyouji weren't all that well known for engaging in the petty backstabbings of government, but such were the dangers of a steady job.

There wasn't any reason to get this upset over carrying someone light for a change, really. The fine, trimmed black hair was unremarkable; a goodly portion of Japan looked like that. The face was entirely unfamiliar, lips too thin, cheeks too wide, nose just a little flat--but the eyes...gods. The eyes.

It had been a trick of the light, of course, that's all it could have been; but for half a moment, watching his reflection in those too-wide eyes as they dulled and drooped, he thought he'd seen a flash of just that shade of grey. It was stupid, and he didn't bother to look again, snatching the body and taking to the rooftops before dawn made discretion more difficult. Slender limbs tapped lightly against his back as he traveled, slim, drained body feeling nearly as light as a child's, though still not so light as--

Stop.

The park was dead to the world, as he'd known it would be. They hadn't dared try to rebuild or repopulate it, especially not after his fight with the tree. A bitter smile turned his lips as he landed and trudged for his old adversary--though he really couldn't call it that. It hadn't been then, either, but now it was the last friend he had in the world. Murmuring some form of greeting he approached, picking his way through the tangle of roots to pat the long scar he'd left on its body.

_"Give him back..."_

No response, naturally. No one tried to call him away--the seals were gone. The angels were gone. Anything for which he might have wished to live was gone.

"I said GIVE HIM BACK!!" The fight--what there was of one--began and ended with one decisive blow, the sound of woody flesh tearing, the blood...the deluge of blood, thick, almost blackened; and suddenly he could hear the screams.

Centuries of agony gushed onto the ground, soaking his feet, thousands upon thousands of souls crying out to him, and none of it mattered but the one voice he'd almost thought he'd heard. Blind hope drove him to his knees at the bleeding altar, weapon cast aside, hands clawing at the wound he'd made, panic mingling his cries with the other lost souls as the tree--too old to humor such behavior--began to seal them all away again.

There was nothing to do but go into it...

...or so it had seemed at the time.

Tired eyes narrowed, and he dropped the body into the riot of twists, pausing to nudge it over with his foot when the face fell toward him. Nothing happened, of course--the tree never took what he offered while he was watching, and he never felt the surge of power from it when it did. He was not its master...if anything, he mused, catching a pink petal, the tree owned him; but why get into semantics. He wasn't sure what the government had labeled him officially, but it didn't matter. He'd no need for titles or code names--an unlisted phone number, running to an answering machine in his ratty apartment, was all the anonymity he cared about, and there were days when he wondered if even that was necessary.

He sighed and squinted at the slowly-paling sky; by rights, this job should be called in, but someone else was bound to report it, and his employers wouldn't complain. The last time they tried to get bitchy with him, they found themselves suddenly reduced in number--and when they got serious and sent another assassin after him, he sent them back a head.

He'd been in a bad mood that day.

That had been nearly--no, exactly--five years ago this day, and idly he wondered if this assignment had been their feeble attempt at revenge. Doubtful...they didn't seem to know the first thing about him, and he was content to have it so. He couldn't even be sure that they knew what he did with the bodies; cursed horticulture wasn't exactly the first logical assumption, but in any case the tree wasn't his primary focus. What it held, on the other hand...

It had fed well after the promised day: Kanoe, Hinoto and her twin guardians, then each of the remaining dragons as he'd come across them...Yuuto, who simply smiled and remarked that at least he got to die by something organic, Satsuki who actually stirred herself to weep for him, only to follow. Kusanagi for no better reason than the fact that he got in the way--and then Yuzuriha started up wailing, and in the spirit of the essence of love, he sent her after. Sorata got between him and Arashi and got to die as he'd always envisioned; Arashi probably would have finished herself if she hadn't lost the ability to call her sword. No reason not to grant her wish; into the tree she went.

Seiichirou had, at last, gathered his loved ones and fled the city. Karen alone remained, and sometimes he could feel her watching him, but she never spoke and never interfered and for that, he could leave her alone. He knew she'd followed him out to what little structure remained of Rainbow Bridge, dragging the corpse; he'd heard her gasp as he tossed it from him, watching the water swallow it up as it surely had Seishirou.

...he'd heard her whisper a prayer as he buried his beloved's body at the base of the tree.

A breeze damp with morning ruffled greying hair as he paced slowly to the other side of the stained monstrosity, bloodied hands drying slowly in his pockets, face turned down to the earth he'd saved--though he could no longer remember why.

A small, roughened bit of stone lay nestled amongst the roots, unpolished face shadowed and shielded from the elments. The epitaph--simply a name--was fading now, but he'd decided not to refresh the blood with which he'd written it. Years from now, no one would be able to trace this resting place, and maybe...maybe then Subaru could be truly free of it.

The tree did not move at his touch when he slid to his knees, thin hands braced on the roots; no ghostly presence moved to comfort him as he stretched out on the ground, arms wrapped loosely around the headstone. Shutting pale eyes long drained of tears, Shirou Kamui succumbed to sleep, dawn lighting the pink petals that settled over his body as a shroud. 

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End file.
